


The Song

by Ginipig



Series: Cullistair One-Shots [10]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Battle in Arbor Wilds, Light Angst, Lyrium Addiction, M/M, Red Lyrium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22306498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginipig/pseuds/Ginipig
Summary: After the battle in the Arbor Wilds is over, Cullen attempts to return to the main camp, but he gets sidetracked.
Relationships: Alistair/Cullen Rutherford, cullistair - Relationship
Series: Cullistair One-Shots [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604995
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	The Song

Cullen let out a tired sigh as he wiped the blood from his sword. He watched the soldiers lead Samson away, hands bound, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit the sight pleased him.

“Are you all right?” the Inquisitor asked him, resting her hand on his shoulder.

“Yes.” He sheathed his sword with a satisfying _shink_. “It’s done.”

“You should get cleaned up. You’ve got blood …” She waved her hand in a large circle and scrunched up her face. “You’ve got blood,” she repeated, but this time as a finished statement. “Go jump in a river or something to rinse off.”

“The essence of tact, as always, Inquisitor.”

She grinned, and he returned it.

Corypheus had lost his lieutenant; no longer would red templars wreak havoc upon Thedas.

“Nice job, Commander. Once you’ve cleaned up, get some rest.”

He promised he would and then began the arduous journey back to the main camp.

While the trip to the temple had been quick, with adrenaline and action distracting him from the journey, now he made poor time, picking his way across the field of battle amidst corpses and, of course, red lyrium. He stopped frequently to check in on his troops or count casualties, and once he even assisted with a small holdout cell of red templars.

The continual action only served to exhaust him further, while the ubiquitous presence of the red lyrium that remained upon the templars’ defeat increased the feeling that the crystals themselves were slowly drilling into his skull. His inability to sit down or get cleaned up did not help.

The song of the red lyrium grew more insistent, and he focused his narrowing vision on the path in front of him. He stumbled several times; he might have fallen. He only knew that the red was beckoning to him, and his feet followed it, unthinking.

Eventually the song filled his mind until he could hear little else, its incessant beat pounding against the inside of his head until he was so close he could taste it, bitter and angry and vengeful on his tongue, filled with a hatred so strong he gagged.

No. He didn’t want this. Even the blue was better than this, and it had taken so much from him already —

The near to a decade of his life spent in an increasingly drugged stupor in Kirkwall, following orders when he should have stood up for what was right. His knowledge of right and wrong, his understanding of protection versus oppression, his faith in the Chantry, and in himself …

The cumulative months of sleepless nights and working until his eyes burned, of nightmares and vomiting and weakness and pain, when he could have fully dedicated his body and mind to the Inquisition and its cause …

The unknown number of lost years he would have spent with Alistair in a peaceful retirement, starting a family, perhaps, and growing old together. Years that they would never see together because of the way lyrium would eventually steal his time and memories and health and sense of self until only a shell of him remained ...

No.

Blue lyrium had stolen enough from him; he refused to let red lyrium corrupt what little he had left. He would not surrender the purpose and happiness he’d finally found with the Inquisition and, most importantly, with Alistair.

Not to mention that Alistair would be disappointed if he gave in, and broken-hearted to lose the love that neither of them had ever thought they’d find.

He took a step backward and slipped; his back smacked painfully into the ground, knocking the poisoned air from his lungs. An unrelenting cacophony blared from the colossal crystal that loomed in front of him. Like a many-legged Fade demon, he scrambled back from the menacing red glow it cast into the darkened sky. Every inch of distance he put between himself and the lyrium decreased its power, and soon, though he was still leaning back on his elbows, he could breathe and, more importantly, _think_ clearly, in spite of the fact that his head felt like it might explode any moment.

Miraculously, he still held his shield, which he used to push himself to his feet. A quick assessment of his surroundings told him that while he had wandered from the path, he was within scouting range of Inquisition forces. Returning to and following the trails, he rather quickly arrived at the nearest post, where he was pointed in the direction of the main camp. Only after he’d started off did he register shouts about the Commander being found.

The moons were high, which meant he’d been missing for close to half a day — his last conversation with the Inquisitor had occurred before the evening hours — so he made up for lost time by pushing his exhausted legs into a jog and then a run, not caring a whit for the racket his armor made and continuing in spite of the complaints of his overtaxed and lyrium-weak body, particularly his head, which pounded in time to the beat of his quickened heart.

Voices shouted as he passed, likely offering a horse or other faster mode of transport, but by the time they hit his ears their owners were far behind him. Some definitely shouted ahead, as well, no doubt forwarding information about him and his state to the Inquisitor and his counterparts.

So it was with little surprise that when he burst, panting, into the middle of the main camp, a chorus of gasps and shouts from the huddled members of the Inner Circle welcomed him.

He was conscious of people addressing him, approaching him, as he skidded to a stop, breathing harder than he should have been. But for all he understood (or cared, for that matter), they might as well have been lyrium-induced hallucinations. His eyes darted among the blurred shapes, searching for the only person who mattered.

Alistair emerged from a tent, the one focused, bright spot in a sea of dull and unintelligible figures. His face was red and splotchy, his eyes shining, his mouth gaping.

“Cullen,” he said, half-question, half-exclamation. He took a step forward.

But Cullen was already moving.

Dropping his shield carelessly as he did so, Cullen rushed to Alistair, who met him not quite halfway and enveloped him in his arms.

“Maker’s breath!” Alistair spoke into his ear. “Where have you been? We thought —”

“I’m okay.” Cullen sighed the words as he buried his face in Alistair’s shoulder. “I got a little lost.”

“Lost?” Alistair cupped the back of Cullen’s head and held him tighter. “You planned the routes! How could you —”

“Red lyrium.”

Alistair jerked back, taking Cullen’s face in his hands, gaze searching for something. “No,” he breathed. “Are you —”

“Fine.” Cullen let his head relax into Alistair’s grasp, eyes drooping closed. “But it sings so loudly … I got confused.”

He shivered, feeling suddenly hot and cold at the same time, and he swayed.

“Cassandra!” Alistair called.

“‘M okay,” Cullen slurred. “Jusstired.”

Strong arms swept him off his feet just as he collapsed.

“Easy there, Cullen,” came the soothing baritone of the Iron Bull. “I got you.”

“Alistair …” Cullen couldn’t lift his throbbing head anymore, and opening his eyes showed him only a blur of color that made him nauseous.

“I’m right here,” Alistair said from somewhere near his ear. A hand grabbed his and squeezed, and though he tried, _wanted_ to squeeze it back, he couldn’t tell whether he was successful.

Then he was on something soft, with something cool placed on his forehead. The pounding in his head didn’t cease completely, but the coolness eased it enough that he let out a moan.

“That’s right,” Alistair’s voice said. Fingers ran through his hair, and Cullen relaxed into them. “I’m here, and you’re safe now.”

Other voices murmured in the background, though Cullen only picked up some of them.

“Where did all this blood come from?” Cassandra. “Is it his?”

“He looked like that when I left him. Never did jump in a river, did you, Cullen?”

That made him smile. “Had to help … lost too many … tried to count … small skirmishes …”

“Clearly you cannot be left unsupervised, Commander.” The peculiar warmth of Dorian’s magic seeped into him. “He does not seem to be injured.”

Cullen scoffed, annoyed. “Not hurt. _Red lyrium_.”

The hand holding his tightened. “Dorian —”

“I do not sense that, either.”

“So he’s not —?” Alistair sounded so upset.

Cullen turned his head toward Alistair’s voice, but could not force his eyes open. “Stopped. Didn’t touch it.”

“Cullen,” said Cassandra, and her hand touched his other arm. “You must tell us what you remember.”

He tried to describe the image in his head. “Big crystal. Hypnotizing …”

“My scouts followed his trail and found it.” Leliana now. “It’s no wonder it called to him, judging by the size. We are fortunate he found it before —”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Alistair never spoke to Leliana like that. “If he was that close to it, he could have been tainted!”

“No.” He moaned the words, needing Alistair to understand. “Stopped. Didn’t want to … for us. Chose you instead.”

The silence that followed further eased the pounding of his head, enough so he could hear several small gasps.

Dorian cleared his throat. “I — uh — we should probably leave you alone. Make sure he rests. I’ll be back to check on him later. Walk with me, Cassandra?”

Cassandra gave an odd sigh, but said, “Yes, of course.”

Further silence fell, and then Alistair softly asked, “Can you open your eyes for me?”

For Alistair, he would try anything. Forcing his eyelids up with more effort than he remembered expending to defeat Samson, Cullen glimpsed a swimming, blurry Alistair until his vision settled.

“‘M sorry,” he said, finally seeing the tear tracks down Alistair’s cheeks.

“No, no.” Alistair shook his head, all the while holding Cullen’s hand and stroking his hair. “You resisted it?”

Cullen managed only a single nod. “Had to. ‘S taken too much already. Couldn’t lose you, too.”

Alistair removed the now-warm cloth, kissed Cullen’s forehead — at which he let his eyes flutter closed with a sigh — and placed a fresh cool one in place of both. “I always knew you were strong,” he said, kissing Cullen’s cheeks, eyelids, nose, chin. “But I have never been more proud of you.” Alistair’s cool hand stroked Cullen’s cheek. “I love you so much that I’ll probably forgive you for scaring me like you did.”

Cullen huffed a soft laugh, but no sooner had his mouth curled upward than Alistair’s lips were on his. Cullen tasted in it Alistair’s fear and worry and pride and love, and he tried his best to return the feeling, to let Alistair know just how much he meant to him.

When they finally broke apart, Alistair whispered, “Now get some rest. I’ll watch over you.”

“Lay with me?”

Alistair hesitated. “There’s not much room, and I don’t want —”

“Please?”

When Alistair answered simply, “Okay,” without further argument, Cullen truly understood how worried he’d been. He needed this as much as Cullen did.

“Love you,” Cullen whispered, once Alistair was settled, arms wrapped around him protectively.

“I love you, too. Now rest.”

And with Alistair holding him, Cullen finally allowed his body to relax as he drifted into the Fade.


End file.
